


sixty years

by mountsky



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Demons, M/M, Vampires, idk what else to tag, im such a terrible tagger I apologise, ummmmmmmmmmmmmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountsky/pseuds/mountsky
Summary: And then there was Hoshiumi, hours later when he was certain he was a goner, lightening clapping behind him, lighting up the feral look on his face and those wicked unholy eyes- and he had offered Sachirou a hand up, grumbled about cleaning up messes and Sachirou had never looked back. He’d been scared for five minutes, enough to sign over his eternal servitude to the demon prince. And then Hoshiumi had whipped himself with his own tail and Sachirou had let out the first of an infinite number of sighs.-or the one where Sachirou is a vampire and Hoshiumi is his demon lord.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	sixty years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daedalust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daedalust/gifts).



> *taps mic* hiruhoshi community you're so beautiful and amazing I love you all so much I cannot believe how brilliant every single one of you is and I am overwhelmed by how much your thoughts and content blow my mind every single day. 
> 
> for [kdad](https://twitter.com/kurapikasdad) who needed a distraction and DIRECTLY inspired by their phenomenal piece of demon king [Hoshiumi art](https://twitter.com/kurapikasdad/status/1275956539916877824?s=20)
> 
> kdad ily

“You look good,” Sachirou says, for the fifth time. Maybe even the sixth. It’s sixth time lucky in this castle. Six knocks on vaulted gates. Six shots of fiery scotch for bad luck. Six, six, six. 

Hoshiumi, his lord, his tiny lord with a shadow that spreads across the high granite walls and trembles with every step, his lord who commands fire at his will, snarls through sharp fangs. His lord, who he’d once witnessed make a troll three times his size piss his pants in the middle of the woods with just a look, whines. He whines, sword clanking as he stomps over to his bed and flops, the sleeping baby dragons nipping at him as they find themselves a non-rumpled section of his black sheets.    
  
Hoshiumi, to whomst Sachirou owns his eternal servitude, growls. Releases an honest to god huff of fire and throws off the embroidered cape they’d picked up that one time Gao had begged them to go to Morocco to meet the djin he’d fallen in love with. 

It had taken four weeks and the promise of a foot massage that Sachirou didn’t follow through with to get Hoshiumi out of his babouches and back into his Demon King Boots (tm). 

“I don’t want to look good, Sachirou, I want to look scary.” 

Thing is, Hoshiumi hasn’t been scary to him for a long time. Decades, maybe. Ever since their first meeting, Sachriou’s body wracked with shivers, shield tossed to the side, terrified and bleeding sluggishly from the two fang marks on his neck. He’d been surrounded by friends, horses, knights, laid dead and drained on the soil around him. His kingdom stood no chance against a foe that had an alliance with vampires. Somehow, Sachirou hadn’t expected to ever meet one, he took care of the horses and when needed he could pick up a sword. He hadn’t expected to live through the war. He hadn’t expected to be the only survivor.    
  
And then there was Hoshiumi, hours later when he was certain he was a goner, lightening clapping behind him, lighting up the feral look on his face and those wicked unholy eyes- and he had offered Sachirou a hand up, grumbled about cleaning up messes and Sachirou had never looked back. He’d been scared for five minutes, enough to sign over his eternal servitude to the demon king. And then Hoshiumi had whipped himself with his own tail and Sachirou had let out the first of an infinite number of sighs. 

A contract signed in blood, the promise of anonymity, stability for his family, and all the blood donations he could handle, and sixty years later here he was. Sharing a castle with a demon prince under six foot who called himself king, his army of underworld souls, a miserable bitch of a dark elf, and a werewolf who cried when Sachirou called him a mangy mutt. 

And yet, Izuru and Gao aside, Sachirou knows he’s lucky. All things considered. Lucky that he sold his soul to a demon king that was possibly kinder, more genuine, grounded, than any human Sachirou had ever met. 

“You are scary, your terribleness,” he teases, quirking a brow and dodging the blast of fire sent sparking from Hoshiumi’s fingertips to sear into the leather of the sofa he’s sat on. 

“Sachirou, I’ll kill you, you stinky mosquito,” Hoshiumi whines, throwing a hand over his eyes. Cute, Sachirou thinks, and flushes when he realises. “Stinky, mean, cruel, stupid vampire-”   
  
“I’m impressed, it took you two years to come up with something other than blood-sucker. Truly a milestone.”   
  
“Back in your day, didn’t you used to kneel before your king and kiss his feet?” Korai whines. Petulant. Cute.    
  
“Even if I knelt, I’d still be taller-”   
  
“Sachirou!”   
  
He dogges a goblet hastily thrown his way and snorts to himself. 

“Kourai,” he says finally, standing up and walking towards his king. He almost reaches out, almost presses his hand against the black leather covering Hoshiumi’s thighs, almost kisses the pout from his lips. It takes the self-control learned over decades not to do so. It’s a line he hasn’t let himself think about crossing. Lusting after royalty is one thing, acting on it is something else entirely. 

But Hoshiumi’s pulling that face. That one that tugs at Sachirou’s cold dead heart. The one that means he’s trying his hardest not to crumble and it’s not a look that Sachirou likes to see. He’d seen it once before. Once when Hoshiumi’s mother had been killed. And then Hoshiumi had repressed it, too busy fighting for recognition and the line of succession from his brother. 

Sachiro takes his prince’s hand, small and rough. They’re good hands. He’d seen these hands wrangle the life out of terrible men, he’d seen these hands coax terrified forest imps when their home had been ravaged, he’d seen this hands wipe at the tears on Sachirous face when he got the news that the last of his mortal family were dead.    


Sachirou rubs his thumb over his skin. Always just a few degrees hotter than a humans. And with complete faith he whispers, “You will be fine.”

Kourai slumps forward, pressing his forehead to Sachirou’s chest. His horns dig in. Sachirou endures the pain. “What if they don’t take me seriously?” He says in a small voice. 

Sachirou doesn’t think before he places his hand on Kourai’s neck, stroke his thumb over the blistering hot skin. “You have your people. You have me and Gao and Izuru. You even have river trolls willing to follow you into battle. You have this entire kingdom. You don’t need them-“

Kourai leans into his touch and it makes his chest ache so hard, Sachirou wonders if he’s suddenly mortal again. 

“I can’t keep calling myself king if I’m not sanctioned by the court of high elders-“

He cups Korai’s face. Tries to get him to just stop thinking. They’ve known each other years and Sachirou knows that Hoshiumi is never satisfied. Different to himself because somehow Hoshiumi, demon, self-proclaimed king, four thousand years old and 160 centimetres tall, decided to save his life and let him finally start living it.    
  
“You’re better at this than your brother,” Sachirou tells him. Kourai opens his eyes, fixing him with that unnerving stare. He stops breathing for a moment.    
  
“Thank you,” Kourai says. And it’s unbearably cute.    
  


* * *

  
  
Hoshiumi doesn’t get court sanction. Sachirou hears from the gargoyle watching him train in the courtyard, who’d heard from the troll cooks, who’d heard from Gao flirting with the sirens guarding the main hall.    
  
Sachirou finds him on his eighth goblet of something dark and glittering in their favourite inn by the city. He’s standing atop a grimy wooden table, trying to tap dance to gaudy terrible tunes and the organist is having the time of his life. It’s a pitiful sight, seeing as Hoshiumi can’t dance and his tail keeps sending empty cups clattering to the floor.    
  
“My king,” a brave demon tries, stepping forward. Round these parts Hoshiumi is king. It’s unspoken, it’s unofficial but it’s Hoshiumi they look up to and respect. It’s probably hard for them to see him like this.    
  
“Haven’t you heard? It’s prince now!” Kourai shouts, a terrifying feral smile on his face and Sachirou sighs, clearing his throat. The crowd parts for him, used to this, used to Sachirou following wherever Hoshiumi goes, used to Sachirou getting a hold of his cape, or his tunic, or that one time his tail that he almost lost his hand for. Kourai throws back the drink in his hand and throws it. Sachirou catches it with reflexes he’s still getting used to and then he’s face to face with Kourai’s big, fake, grin.   
  
“Sachirou,” Kourai says once Sachirou is standing in front of him, looking up at him.    
  
“Your highness.”   
  
The smile falters for a second.    
  
“They chose Akitomo.”    
  
“I heard.”

Kourai pulls that face. The face that Sahcirou hates with every fibre of his immortal being. And when Kourai crumbles Sachirou is there to catch him, to wrap his arms around him when he steps down, and hide the vulnerability in his wicked eyes from the people who love and respect him.    
  
He doesn’t say anything as he helps Kourai up the stairs of the inn, to the best room in the establishment. He’d rather take him back to the castle, tuck him in, stroke the hair from his blistering face. But he knows Kourai enough that he’s volatile like this. He probably wouldn’t last the ride home without causing some kind of havoc.    
  
So instead, he gently lowers Kourai onto the bed, throws off his own cape and takes a moment to feel anger flush through him. Kourai should be king. Anyone with a lick of sense could see that.    
  
“It’s not fair,” Kourai’s voice is muffled into the pillow, making no move to unbend the awkward sprawl of his body. “Is it because I’m only half? They laughed when I showed up, Sachirou, said I was a child and the spare. That I wouldn’t know what it was like to lead a demon army. That my mother had diluted the lineage-” He’s getting heated again, sitting upright and digging his heels into the wooden floor.    
  
Sachirou breathes out. And very slowly kneels in front of him.    
  
The last time Sachirou had knelt, he’d been nineteen, on the cold marble in an English countryside, and in front of a queen who he knew nothing about. Sixty years later, he was in the dark world, kneeling before a man he knew better than he knew himself.    
  
“What are you doing?” Kourai whispers, his tail flicking out in a nervous habit he’d tried to suppress. Sachirou swallows. He’s not sure what it is he’s doing. Only that it feels right.    
  
He undoes the laces of Kourai’s boots, eases his feet out of them. His hands aren’t trembling but his breath is coming out shallower anyway.    
Sixty years by Kourai’s side. Sixty years a dead man, a vampire. Sixty years learning for the first time how to live.    
  
“Sachirou?” Kourai says again, his voice sounds wrecked. Small, again. Unsure.    
  
He looks up at his king, the man he sold his soul to, stares into those wicked glowing eyes, and he smiles.    
  
“I offer you,” he says quietly. The sound of howling and drunken cheers lingering through the open window. It doesn’t disturb them, “My shield and my sword.” He lifts Kourai’s leg, hands firm on his calf. 

“I offer you my undying loyalty.” He presses a kiss to the slope of his ankle. Feels the skin get impossibly hotter. 

“I offer you my life-”   
  
“Sachirou-”   
  
“My king.”    
  
He drops his head in honour, his ribs aching, his heart aching, his entire body aching. He’s not sure what that was. A renewal of a blood contact, a knight's oath. A proposal. But it’s out there now and there ‘s nothing he can do to take it back.  He doesn’t want to take it back.    
  
“Arise, sir,” Kourai says finally, and his voice is firm and unyielding. The kind of voice Sachirou would put his entire life behind. “You’re my first knight.”   
  
He has just enough time to look up before Kourai’s fingers sink into the cotton of his shirt and he yanks him up onto the bed, small frame buzzing with strength. “Kourai-kun,” he breathes but Kourai’s not listening, he’s- He’s too busy, kissing Sachirou’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his neck.    
  
Sixty years of longing makes his eyes sting.    
  
“We’re gonna get my kingdom back, together.” Kourai says. His tail wraps around Sachirou’s leg, keeping him there, pressed against each other in the inn’s best bed.    
  
Sachirou gazes down at him. At the feral look on his face and his terrifying unholy eyes.    
  
“Together, my liege.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohsu_3) :)


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